N. Likes

I’m still thinking about Sydney

I reflect on a conversation with Margot about her unrealized fantasy of double penetration and a gangbang, realizing what excites me isn’t the act itself but the trust she’d place in me to keep her safe while curating such an evening — and the gratitude that might follow.

I experience connections as deep and real, but they end not in intentional closure but in disappearance. This is my compulsive repetition of courting and failing to avoid abandonment.

A candid message to Sydney, distinguishing between my general desire for cunnilingus and my specific desire for her, while framing it carefully to avoid unwelcome intrusion.

Is delightful. Delicious. And lovely.

I had an epiphany connecting my engagement with sex workers — and my uncertainty about Margot’s performativity — to my childhood in a ‘funhouse of distortion,’ raised to believe my father was straight. Wondering whether Margot is real or performing repeats the same psychic wound: never being able to trust what I saw or was told.

I’m reflecting on the dramatic decline in real human traffic to my blog, the rise of AI-mediated reading, and the loss of the narcissistic gratification I used to get from engaged readership. I’m not sure yet whether this is a bad thing, but it’s a real change and I’m uncertain how or whether to adapt.

I’ve dated several beautiful, intelligent women recently but can’t muster a physical response. With Tina, whose voice is catnip, the problem is she’s not submissive — when I asked her to wear something green and she deflected, every alarm bell went off, and now, shamefully, I want to run.

I’ve been a lifelong Democratic voter and donor, but I’ve stopped giving because of relentless unsolicited text messages I can’t opt out of. If the party can’t solve this simple problem, why should anyone trust them with bigger ones?

I’m writing about Isabella, one of two women who taught me the most about my sexuality. She showed me my cock could be an object of desire, while the Secretary taught me my desire itself could be desired. I miss them both — not just for sex, but for the intimacy we shared.